


Hair Like Tesla Coils

by Ricechex



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, For Naomi because she's awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 19:04:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ricechex/pseuds/Ricechex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her hair was curly.</p>
<p>It took him by surprise, the first time he saw it down - really saw it down - shower-damp and loose and wavy, the ends soaking into his dressing gown as she sat in his chair and leaned forward, hands clasped and elbows on her knees. Long ringlets that would dry much tighter, like Tesla coils framing her face. The science of Ms. Irene Adler was mesmerising, intoxicating, and he never wanted to learn it all - learning it all meant the game was through, that he’d mastered the subject of her, and she was too intriguing to ever be done with.</p>
<p>******</p>
<p>A prompt from Naomi, with a poem that she'd read that reminded her of Sherlock & Irene. A bit more poetic than my usual writing, but it was loads of fun and I really rather like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hair Like Tesla Coils

Her hair was curly.

It took him by surprise, the first time he saw it down - really saw it down - shower-damp and loose and wavy, the ends soaking into his dressing gown as she sat in his chair and leaned forward, hands clasped and elbows on her knees. Long ringlets that would dry much tighter, like Tesla coils framing her face. The science of Ms. Irene Adler was mesmerising, intoxicating, and he never wanted to learn it all - learning it all meant the game was through, that he’d mastered the subject of  _her_ , and she was too intriguing to ever be done with.

He could count her freckles if he wanted to - data that had been scattered across the hard drive of her skin, pinpoints of pigment that looked so unimportant but on her were so much more than what they seemed. They all told a story, each one, because they were hers and she was leaning forward and he could  _see them all_ , could play connect-the-dots and make constellations. She’d have to tell him what they were - he’d deleted the names and shapes long ago, but she’d know. He’d trace them with his fingertip and her eyes would sparkle like the night sky, dark and dangerous and full of bright flashes.

If people were flowers, she’d be a lily - graceful and beautiful, swooping lines and perfect angles. An arrangement of atoms he could not fathom, soft skin and soft hair and bright eyes and a scent that you never forgot, no matter how many times your pillow case was washed after she’d slept on it, the scent lingered, expensive perfume and a bouquet of Adler, freckles like stars and hair like Tesla coils, every inch of her begging to be touched, begging for his skin to move closer, to let her come and chip away at his defences, erode his atmosphere and reshape his knowledge until all of it echoed her at every turn.

The very existence of her challenged him, pushed him, broke him apart until he was certain that she might step on the shards of him and cut herself, her blood just one more component, one more ion to add to the mix. It was volatile. It made him want to scream. It made him want to make her scream.

“I think, if I were capable of love, that I might grow to love you, Ms. Adler.”

She smirked, cheeks moving, data-freckles shifting, realigning. The constellations were different now, but he could still trace them if he reached out. “I think, Mr. Holmes, that if you were capable of love, I would not be able to love you.”

He smiles, because she understands him, and understanding a concept such as himself is not easy.

He saves her life, and some time later she saves his. They never speak of it, until one night when they’ve had far too many drinks, and she tells him that she was glad he was still alive.

“You’ve become very dear to me, you know.”

“You’re very much like pi, Ms. Adler.”

“How so?”

“Irrational.”

She quirked one eyebrow.

“I… happen to like irrational numbers.”

“How fortunate for me then, Mr. Holmes.”

He cannot stop it, the first time he reaches out, brushes the hair from her face. She grabs his hand and presses her cheek into his palm, star-freckles exploding against his skin, supernovas that terrify and excite him. The first time he kisses her, it is as though the physics of  _him_  and the physics of  _her_  have stopped being true, and now there is only the physics of  _them_.

“You make the atmosphere around me erode, Mr. Holmes.”

“In what way?”

“You make it difficult to breathe.”

He smiles and kisses her again.

And so they make their studies of one another, never truly wanting the lessons to be over. Each discovery leads to new hypotheses, new data to be entered and calculated, new tests and experiments to be done. He learns precisely how to drag his fingertips up her spine to make her gasp and writhe above him. She learns about the spot just above his collarbone that will have him moaning and pulling her closer. He takes her apart, inch by inch and atom by atom. She builds him up into something new. They are a chemical reaction and they explode, implode, strength and bond.

When he wakes up alone, the scent of her lingers. He pulls the pillow close and breathes her in.

A note is waiting for him on the table. He smirks as he reads it. She’s on the run. He’ll chase her. It is a game that they will never tire of.

They will fight, they will argue, they will agree and stand together. They will make of each other new compounds and new substances.

They will make their studies last.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem that Naomi had was this:


End file.
